judges. That old fellow's built his soul into them
wheels an' pipes. An' his skin an' bone too, for that matter. There's
little enough of 'em left, God knows! Come up, Jerry!"

But Jane was leaning on the shafts again. Perhaps the story of the
starving old machinist had touched her; even Andy guessed how big and
childish the heart was in her woman's body, and how she always choked it
down. She had taken out the basket now that held the old man's lunch,
and was rearranging the slices of bread and ham, her fingers trembling,
and lingering curiously over each. Her lips moved, but she said nothing.

"Thy bread _is_ amazin' soft-crusted," said Mrs. Wart. "Thee scalds the
raisin', don't thee, now?"

"To-morrow, thee said, Andrew?"

"Yes, that'll be the end of the engine, for good or bad. Ten years he's
been at it, he says."

"Ten years, last spring," to herself.

She had put the basket down, and was stooping over the weeds.

"Did I tell ye that? I forgot. Well, Mis' Wart, we'll be off. Don't
fret, it's not late. Jerry's blooded. He'll not let the grass grow under
his feet."

And the milk-wagon, with its yellow letters, went trundling down the
road, the sun beginning to shine pleasantly in on the cool tin vessels
within, and the crisp red curls and blue eyes of the driver,--on the
lantern, too, swinging from the roof inside, as Andy glanced back. He
chuckled; even Mrs. Wart looked tidy and clean in the morning air; his
lunch smelt savory in the basket. Then suddenly recalling the old
machinist, and the history in which he was himself part actor, he
abruptly altered his expression, drawing down his red eyebrows to a
tragic scowl, and glaring out into the pleasant light as one who insults
fate.

"Whatever is thee glowerin' thataway about?" snapped his companion.

Andy took out his handkerchief, and wiped his forehead deliberately.

"Men see passages in human life that women suspect nothing about, Mem.
Darn this wagon, how it jolts! There's lots of genius trampled underfoot
by yer purse-proud tyrants, Mem."

"Theeself, for instance. Thee'd best mind thy horse, boy."

But she patted her basket comfortably. It is so easy to think people
cruel and coarse who have more money than ourselves! Not for Andy,
however. His agrarian proclivities were shallow and transient enough. So
presently, as they bowled along the level road, he forgot Joe Starke,
and began drumming on the foot-board and humming a tune,--touching now
an